Riffs That Ruin (Survival Records #2)

9. Raina

T he saint that is my new manager hasn’t been gone long—my other guys haven’t even found their way back in yet—before a knock sounds at the door. Keaton is quick to answer, a scowl on his face like he can protect me from anyone and anything. It makes me smile, the sense of being cared for washing over me.

“So sorry to interrupt, but everyone is needed for sound check.” The woman tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and clutches a tablet against her chest. She’s dressed in a sharp pair of pants with a flowy top that complements her curves.

The moment I step from The Storm, she holds her hand out. “My name’s Gill. It’s an honor to be working on your tour. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if anything isn’t running smoothly or if I can do anything for you.”

“I appreciate you being here, Gill. I hope you enjoy the chaos that comes with a tour. Each day is filled with numerous fires to put out.” I let out a laugh, knowing I’m only aware of a fraction of what happens in the day to day. “Please trust that I’m grateful for everything your job entails.”

We make it to the back entrance of the venue, where I offer a few waves to some fans before walking through the door held open by security. Gill smoothly navigates through the maze of hallways, and with a glance at her tablet, I find she has a map there. Smart.

“Honestly, you’re not what I expected at all,” she states, almost under her breath. “I know not to believe what the media reports, but you have to wonder if there’s even a kernel of truth in what they say.”

She glances over at me, and her eyes go wide, like she realizes what she said out loud without necessarily meaning to. I can’t help but laugh. I get this reaction a lot, but somehow I find her refreshing. “Don’t worry about it. You aren’t the first person to admit it to me.”

“For the record, I don’t believe the rumors or the vile things your old band said. I prefer to judge a character for myself.”

“I appreciate that, Gill, but I’m not so sure. The band’s comments were probably born from days I was denied coffee.” We both share a laugh.

“Pfft. You might think it’s early yet, but I can tell we’ll get along great.” She tucks her hair behind her ear again and glances at her tablet like she’s suddenly become shy. “Maybe I’ll make sure to have coffee on hand at all times, just in case.”

We come to a stop at the edge of the stage where Keaton continues to his drum kit. He spins his sticks as he finds his seat and makes sure everything is situated exactly how he wants it. He catches me watching and brings his sticks to his mouth, where he licks them with the flat of his tongue. My face instantly heats, and I quickly glance around to make sure nobody else saw him.

“You don’t seem to believe me, but I’ve heard plenty of people on tour already talking about how nice you are and nothing like the stuck up personality we’ve been fed.” Her hand squeezes my arm in a friendly gesture that I can’t help but enjoy. Nobody has ever dared to get friendly with me, not when Alyssa has always found a way to make their life hell. “Don’t sell yourself short, babes. You’re amazing, and I have a feeling that you’ll start to shine like you never have before.”

“Thanks, Gill.” For some reason, my throat becomes tight, emotion accumulating there that I’m not sure how to process. The need to escape overwhelms me, but it’s not the negative kind like I’ve encountered so many times before. Giving her a wobbly smile and a head gesture to the stage, I say, “I better join the band.”

“Enjoy your sound check,” she replies lightly, giving her attention over to the tablet.

As I stride across the stage, I find everyone in their places, except Darius. Dejavu hits me as my eyes narrow, searching the expanse of our performing area and then into the wings, trying to spot him in case I simply missed him.

He’s nowhere to be seen.

Fucking great.

We have to jump into performing with someone new, having never practiced together before, and now he’s late to our first and only chance to learn to meld together before we have an audience of several thousand judging people.

My stomach cramps with not finding him. Did he change his mind? Or worse yet, did the man who holds my shackles? He’s no doubt a plant from Dickless. We already have someone on the team giving away information that’s protected by an NDA, which I suspect came from Alyssa—why wouldn’t they try to get even more vulnerable information that only someone in the band could produce?

Now that I think of it, that man hasn’t given me anything without a fight since the moment I resisted acting like his whore. Why would he all of a sudden decide to be generous toward me, even if he does plan on charging me extra shows so he can make lord knows how much more off me, not to mention boosting the name of his newest talent.

It’s fucking bullshit. I don’t trust any of it at all.

Why in the world would someone with perfect pitch—like he’s supposedly capable of—be available on short notice like this? I can’t trust a single thing when it comes to Dickless, which means I can’t let my guard down around Darius, either. No matter what happens when we make music together.

A squeak sounds as my teeth grit together, a noise that makes me shudder in discomfort. It’s akin to nails on a chalkboard or biting against tin foil. My nerves are frayed, and we aren’t even to the challenging part of my day. It’ll be a long one, that’s for sure.

Nash, Blake and Keaton are silent around me, aside from the absentminded tap of drumsticks on the snare. I have to wonder if the sound of his drumming isn’t leading us into troubled times to come…

The auditorium is empty save for a few crew members ensuring everything is in place for the show. Lighting guys are adjusting the angle, getting it to the perfect slant that matches the staging blueprints. Then there are a few members checking cables. Yet Darius is nowhere to be found.

I can’t help but pace back and forth, gripping my microphone in my hand and tapping it against my leg in aggravation. How long will we need to wait? Not to mention the longer we do, the more irritated the sound engineer will get. We already had an altercation once; I’d like to prevent pissing him off again.

Nash works through his strings to tune his bass, but it sounds perfect to me, which means he’s getting impatient too. It’s paired with Blake plucking on his strings and my scuffing of shoes against the flooring. It’s a soundtrack of impatience.

Blake meets my gaze, his furrowed brow quickly disappearing as he gives me a soft smile. “Hey there, Bunny. What has you so keyed up?”

A growl practically jumps out of my mouth. “He’s barely had the job for an hour and is already late.” I throw my hands into the air, almost dropping my mic. “I’ll admit I got good vibes from him at first, but if this is the dedication we can expect out of him, I’m not so sure.”

If I was honest with not only him but myself too, I’d admit that I miss Tristan. I hated so freaking much that he showed back up in my life, and I haven’t forgiven him for the way he tried to destroy me. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t find a secret sense of comfort in having him play with me again. We worked through the contentious bullshit until we blended into a perfect harmony of sound. Now I’ll have to start all over with someone new, knowing Tristan is somewhere out there, and I’m left yet again with no closure when it comes to him.

Keaton grunts in agreement, his speed increasing as he taps on the snare. Added movement catches my attention, and I spin in place to face the edge of the stage where I expect to find Darius. Instead, I find the sound engineer fiddling with the mixer. His movements are jerky, showing off his own mounting frustrations.

It makes my teeth grit again, knowing I can probably count down the seconds until he yells at me once more. Now the question is, do I hedge my bets and try to soothe him proactively? Or will that make it even worse?

“Late again. No respect for other people’s time.” His grumbles reach me before I’m even able to decide. I couldn’t agree more, although I’m sure his irritation is directed at me instead of the culprit. I check my watch and realize it’s only been five minutes since we were supposed to start, even though it’s felt like five years. If Darius doesn’t get here soon, I’ll drag him here by the ear. Ungrateful asshole.

Suddenly, the slamming of a door echoes from somewhere in the backstage area, gaining our attention as if we know it announces Darius’ presence. He strolls into view as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, lacking any and all urgency I’d expect to find in someone who values making a good impression on his new band.

He slips his phone into his pocket and peers up slowly, meeting my glare through his eyelashes. A smile spreads across his face before it stutters when he notices my expression. “You’re late,” I snap, all restraint on my nerves disappearing.

Darius glances around, noticing for the first time how everyone is waiting for him. A barely perceptible wince tugs at his features before it smooths out. I wouldn’t have caught it if I wasn’t watching him so keenly.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. His mouth opens again as if he wants to give some kind of excuse, but he quickly closes it again and chooses instead to hurry across the stage. “Where do you want me?”

I point to where his power supply is waiting to get plugged in. There’s also his pedalboard waiting for him, making it beyond obvious where he’s supposed to stand.

Maybe he’s just nervous and trying to fill the silence. But that doesn’t change the underlying unease and lack of trust I feel. I keep my mouth shut, too on edge and afraid of what I might say.

Darius takes out his guitar and strides to the spot I pointed out as he positions the strap over his head. It’s no time at all until the click of his power is in place. He glances around the room with a confident grin. “Okay, I’m here now. Let’s get started.”

My nerves bristle at him thinking he can direct when we begin, like he’s the one leading the band. A growl catches my attention. Apparently, I’m not the only one who got rubbed the wrong way.

“It’s nice and all that you’re here, but it’s not just about that, man,” Nash snaps. “We’re at the start of the tour, and this is your first time playing with us. How are we even supposed to trust you when you can’t show up to sound check on time?”

The sound engineer purses his lips and nods his head in agreement.

Darius tightens his tuning knobs without making eye contact, but I still spot the small wrinkle that forms between them like he’s puzzled, yet he pulls off a cool demeanor. “I’ve learned the entire set and have it nailed. I’m not here to slow anyone down,” he replies defensively as his fingers pick at the strings, making sure they’re in tune. “Let’s get through this sound check, and you’ll see.”

Keaton stops his tapping and holds both sticks in one hand where his knuckles turn white with how hard he’s gripping them. “It’s not only about hitting the right notes,” he says, his voice gravelly with how little he’s spoken today.

Blake seems to pick up on the same thought pattern. “We’ve been playing together for years as a band and have spent the last month making sure we blend seamlessly with Raina. You can’t walk in here and instantly find that chemistry.”

Nash cuts in right after, “Not to mention our best friend, the man you’re subbing for, is missing. You can’t simply step into his shoes and replace him.”

Darius meets Blake’s gaze before shifting it to Keaton and Nash. His lips press together, forming a line that’s still attractive even when you can tell his patience is thinning. “I’m not trying to replace anyone, and I’m not asking you to jump into being my best friend. I’m here to play with one of the top talents in the industry.” His hand squeezes the neck of his instrument, and if he wasn’t talking, I have the distinct impression that he’d be gritting his teeth right now. “I have a skill set that lets me instantly step into place when I’m needed. I know the set inside and out. I won’t let you down, but you have to give me a chance before instantly discarding me as someone who won’t flow with you.”

He has a point; we are jumping to conclusions when it comes to him. But when something seems too convenient…

Everyone falls silent for a beat, the tension thickening in the air with our inability to simply let it go. Things are too new, and the stakes are too high. The knowledge of why he’s even here leaving us raw with the memory of Tristan’s disappearance.

The seconds seem to tick by until Blake suddenly strums a chord, glancing between Darius and the others until his Caribbean blue eyes land on me. It’s clear he’s trying to ease the situation, which becomes even more apparent when he takes a deep breath and holds it for a beat before releasing it. I follow his example, appreciating his concern for making sure I’m calm above anyone else.

When my shoulders drop an inch with some of the stress leaving my body, he graces me with a hint of a smile. It washes over me, warming my heart and waking the damn butterflies in my stomach.

Turning his attention to the newest member of our merry group, he drops the smile he held for me and fixes the man with a serious stare. “Look, Darius, it’s just—you’re new, and we all have history,” he says gesturing to us. “We have a flow, you know? Built a trust that we rely on for more than performing on stage. We simply need the reassurance that you won’t throw us off mid-song.”

“We have to make sure Raina shines, no matter what. It’s not about us,” Nash adds. He points to me. “It’s about her.”

Darius sighs, fixing his gaze on me, freezing me in place with the passion I find in his striking green depths. “Yeah, it is.” He strums his guitar, a clean riff that echoes through the venue. Then he returns his attention to my guys. I’m not sure if he recognizes the way they bristle with the look he gave me. “I get it, I really do. I’m not Tristan, and I didn’t come to replace him. But the fact stands that he isn’t here, and I am. You need me, so what’s with all the hostility? I just want to make the music work and to back up Raina.”

Darius starts to quietly play the first song of the set, his fingers barely plucking at the strings.

Nash takes an agitated step toward him, and I see the sound engineer’s head snap up, watching carefully in case he needs to step in to break them apart. “You don’t get to waltz in and expect us to fall gratefully at your feet simply because we need someone, and you can hit all the notes. This is a band, there’s more to it than being able to play perfectly—it’s about being in sync. And from what I’ve seen, you’re pretty damn cocky. Can you even get along with a band, or is that why you’re free to join us? You can’t get along with anyone?”

I suck in a harsh breath. Damn, Nash sure isn’t holding back any punches. Perhaps the attention Darius gave me hit him a little harder than I thought.

Darius stops playing suddenly, leaving the auditorium feeling extra empty with the lack of sound. He levels Nash with a challenging glare. “I came to do what I do best, which is support the artist I’m playing for to the best of my ability. I step in when there’s a lack of lead guitar—for whatever reason—and I’m damn good at it. Sometimes I even do it better than the person I’m filling in for. People seek me out all the time because of my talent, and right now, it feels like you’re looking for any excuse you can to keep me out. How about you stop to give me a chance to play instead of assuming I’ll screw it up?”

I’m surprised he didn’t address the dig about not having a band of his own to play with, almost as if he avoided it on purpose because it hit a little too close to home.

Nash takes another step forward, the dig about Tristan hitting a raw nerve making my bass player explode. His tongue flicks at his lip ring, but it’s not the sexy move that makes my knees weak. No, it’s angry, almost violent.

“You don’t get it, man. You haven’t earned that trust,” Nash yells. I wince at the mention of trust. Nash is probably focused on that one aspect so hard because he lost faith in his best friend, pushing him away, thinking the worst of him, only for him to find out he was wrong when Tristan went missing. “You think because you have perfect pitch, you know better than the rest of us?”

“Enough!” Keaton’s smooth voice cuts in. It seems to jumpstart me out of watching the impending clash building in front of me.

I step forward, putting myself between the two men, holding my hands up. “We don’t have time for any fights right now. As it is, you’re burning our rehearsal time. Let’s run the set and get the sound perfect for the show.”

Nash narrows his gaze on Darius, tilting his head to the side so he can see past me. “Yeah, fine. We’ll see how you do. Find out if your skill is as great as you think it is.”

Darius adjusts his strap, his gaze flashing with determination as he stares at Nash’s retreating back. “I’ve been playing my whole life. If you want to keep doubting me, fine. But don’t blame me if the sound goes flat when you’re the one stuck in the past.”

The jab has Nash spinning on his heel to face the newcomer. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

A low laugh spills out of Darius, lacking all humor. “It means stop comparing me to your old guitarist and let me do my job.” His piercing eyes flick to me, where they soften, some of the fight leaving them. “Shit. I don’t want to start things with your band. I’m here to play for you, nobody else.”

Blake’s eyes narrow, not liking the way he dismissed the band, but his words get to me. I might not trust his motives are as pure as he puts them, not with Dickless’ influence, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t being truthful either.

I’ve been watching everything going on, not having any experience with a situation like this. I’ve never dated my band, had my best friend go missing, and then had someone new step in. But I’m suddenly reminded that I’m the nexus between everyone; I’m in the middle whether I like it or not. Which also means I’m the peacekeeper.

Closing the distance between us, I lower my voice and run my hand along Nash’s arm. “Back off, okay? He’s here to help us, we don’t need this before a show.”

He shrugs off my touch, his angry gaze turning to something akin to a hurt puppy. He blows out a breath and steps away, not saying anything else, but his silence tells me he’ll do what I asked.

“This is a disaster,” Blake whispers under his breath.

“Can I get the kick drum?” the sound engineer asks. I should really learn what his name is. I hope he isn’t too pissed with having to watch everyone fighting when we’re taking up his time. You don’t want to make enemies with anyone who comes on tour with you, most of all the man responsible for making you sound good at the venue.